_preux chevalier_ of a month--met, and she did not love him any more.
Not an atom! All such feelings had been swept away, crushed out of
existence by the total crushing of that respect and esteem without which
no good woman can go on loving. At least no woman like Christian
could.

Call her not fickle, nor deem it unnatural for love so to perish. After
learning what she had learned from absolute incontrovertible evidence
(it is useless to enter into the circumstances, for no one is benefited by
wallowing in unnecessary mire), that she, or any virtuous maiden,
should continue to love this man, would have been a thing still more
unnatural--nay, wicked.

No, she did not love him any more, she was quite sure of that. She
watched his tall, elegant figure---he was as beautiful as Lucifer--
moving about the rooms, and it seemed that his very face had grown
ugly to her sight. She shivered to think that once--thank God, only
once!--his lips had pressed hers; that she had let him say to her fond
words, and write to her fond letters, and had even written back to him
others, which, if not exactly love-letters, were of the sort that no girl
could write except to a man in whom she wholly believed--in his
goodness and in his love for herself.

What had become of those letters she had no idea; what was in them
she hardly remembered; but the thought of them made her grow pale
and terrible. In an agony of shame, as if all the world were pointing at
her--at Dr. Grey's wife--she hid herself in a corner, behind the
voluminous presence of Miss Gascoigne, and sat waiting, counting
minutes like hours till her husband should appear.